


Kissable Fanatic, Unhinged Minim Artists.

by Basingstoke



Series: Toad [1]
Category: X-Men (Movieverse)
Genre: Alcohol, Alien Sex, M/M, POV Original Character, Tattoo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2001-08-20
Updated: 2001-08-20
Packaged: 2017-10-02 15:41:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,330
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7984
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Basingstoke/pseuds/Basingstoke
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Thanks to Jacquez for an ass-kicking beta and to Smitty for checking my slang. Remaining mistakes are entirely my fault.</p>
    </blockquote>





	Kissable Fanatic, Unhinged Minim Artists.

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Kissable Fanatic, Unhinged Minim Artists.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1037812) by [Lio_Hunter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lio_Hunter/pseuds/Lio_Hunter)



> Thanks to Jacquez for an ass-kicking beta and to Smitty for checking my slang. Remaining mistakes are entirely my fault.

excerpt of E-Punk.com's interview of Anagram, front man for the Gutter Dogs:

E-Punk: So how did the band get started?

Anagram: Oh, lord, it was ages ago. We were little bitty kids, me and Neil. Still in London, run away from home, squatting in this abandoned house because we thought it was cool. We could have gone home--we were total poseurs.

E-P: Hah! Funny to hear someone say that.

A: Well, it's true. We were, um, sixteen? Yeah, sixteen. This was way before we met Tom or Brutus. I was always guitar and vocals and Neil was always drums, right? Back in the beginning we had--fuck me, what's his name. What's his fucking name! The band was only together for a few months before we split up--fucking hell, I can't remember the second guitar guy's name. Our first bassist was this fucking strange guy named Toad. Can't forget him, no sir.

E-P: Toad? Was he green?

A: Yeah. He was.

E-P: Dude, I was joking.

A: Green as grass. Makeup, see? Everyone had a schtick then. He was a strange one. Quiet like a mouse, but he could throw a guy across a room in a fight.

[Anagram pulls out a pack of cigarettes, lights one and gives another to your humble interviewer, who's dying for a smoke right about now.]

A: Haven't thought about him in years. Toad, I mean, not--fuck WHAT is his name. This is driving me mad.

E-P: It's okay, I don't have to know.

A: Toad wrote half the lyrics to "Gutter," you know. He kept giving me lines but wouldn't let me credit him. Never big on credit, that one, always hanging back.

E-P: So what happened to break you guys up? We need some gore in this story.

A: Actually, I dunno. Neil's girlfriend did something to Toad--or he did something to her, but I doubt that. She was always jumping on people, fucking them around, you know? But something happened one night and she left Neil and he left town. I think he went back home, wherever that was. I know he was a runaway too, but I don't think his folks were as nice as mine or Neil's. He looked authentic. Plus he was painted green. Did I tell you that?

E-P: Yep, he was green.

A: Fucking good bass player. Wish he'd stuck around.

E-P: So. First album? ...

Anagram's email: agramna@yahoo.com

* * *

To: agramna@yahoo.com

 

From: toad@REDIRECT-***.***

 

Subject: e-punk interview

the second guitarists name was nathan

\--toad

* * *

To: toad@REDIRECT-***.***

 

From: agramna@yahoo.com

 

Subject: Re: e-punk interview.

&gt; the second guitarists name was nathan

Fuck me!

I thought you'd be dead by now. Or married and an insurance salesman. What have you been up to?

A.

* * *

To: agramna@yahoo.com

 

From: toad@REDIRECT-***.***

 

Subject: Re: e-punk interview

Im a freedom fighter

 

Im wanted in five states

 

would be more but we are too good to get caught

 

I moved to the colonies a little while after the band broke up

I miss the band

 

best time of my life

\--toad

* * *

To: toad@REDIRECT-***.***

 

From: agramna@yahoo.com

 

Subject: Re: e-punk interview.

Freedom fighter? Good one.

I'm in the bloody colonies as well. Good for the career, bad for the soul. Where are you? I'm in New York City.

A.

* * *

To: agramna@yahoo.com

 

From: toad@REDIRECT-***.***

 

Subject: Re: e-punk interview

I am in new york also

funny

 

new york old york

 

here wanted but homeless

 

there with a home but not wanted

\--toad

* * *

To: toad@REDIRECT-***.***

 

From: agramna@yahoo.com

 

Subject: Re: e-punk interview.

Give me a call. I've got a whole suite. I can spare you a couch, at least.

212-555-3158 ext 1224

For old time's sake. You were a bloody good bass player.

A.

* * *

The phone rang at one in the morning, when Anagram was reading the day's _New York Times_, smoking and wondering if he felt like getting pissed.

He picked it up. "Hello?"

"Hi." A soft, male voice, and not one he recognized. "Anagram?"

"Yeah, s'me." He sat up, folding his legs underneath him. "Hang on--Toad?"

"Yeah." Toad sounded different than he remembered, but then, he wasn't a kid any more. Neither of them were. Anagram could hear street sounds on the other end of the line.

"Bloody hell, it's good to hear from you. After that interview I got to thinking about the old days. Wondering what everyone had gotten up to, you know, where people were."

"Good days," Toad said, and his voice was almost too soft to hear over the fuzzy line. "I'm not in jail now and I'm not dead, and that's all I can say."

Anagram ran his thumbnail over his guitar calluses. "I was serious about the crash space. Come up. I'll buy the beer."

Horns honked incessantly behind Toad. "I can't come in the front door. No place would let me in."

"Why not?"

"Because I'm a mutant."

"...Oh." Green skin. They'd just taken him at his word when he said it was makeup; they'd all been too stoned to care.

Fuck. He'd never met a mutant. Or--whatever. He had. He hadn't ever _known_\--oh, fuck it all, Toad was a bloody good bass player. They could talk musician to musician. "That's all right with me. But you don't think it would be all right with the doorman, eh?"

"Nah. They throw me out on my bum."

"We could sneak you in with a coat over your head--or a newspaper! Hold it up and act casual." Anagram scratched his head, trying to remember how they'd snuck so many groupies into hotels on tour. "I could pay someone to start a fight and distract them."

Toad laughed. "There's an easier way...do you have a balcony?"

He looked at the barred glass door. Twelfth fucking floor and they still barred the windows. "Yeah. I'm living the posh life now, my lad. Why?"

"I can come in through the balcony."

"You never."

"I can," Toad said, and he laughed again. He had a strange laugh that caught deep in his throat, kind of like a frog's croak.

"Huh. All right, then." He picked up the complimentary pad of paper and read off the address.

"Give me an hour." Toad paused for a moment. "Thank you, Anagram," he said in a voice so small he sounded like a kid again, and then he hung up.

Anagram replaced the phone. Toad, a mutant. He wouldn't have figured it.

Funny old world.

He was suddenly desperate for a drink. An hour, that was enough time to find himself a sixer of beer. Or two.

* * *

At a quarter past two, Anagram was standing on his balcony, looking over the edge. He wasn't entirely happy with this. He wasn't fond of heights. But he wanted very much to know how Toad intended to get up the side of the building.

"You _are_ living posh," Toad's voice said over his head, and Anagram jumped, dropped his cigarette, and whirled about, ending up with his shoulder blades pressed to the railing.

"Fuck!" He grabbed the railing, staring up at Toad, who was clinging to the side of the building with nothing more than his hands.

"Sorry," Toad said. "I didn't mean to scare you. I came up through the alley and over the roof." He pushed off the side of the building with his feet and landed neatly on the balcony.

"Fuck me." Anagram closed his eyes and caught his breath. When he opened his eyes again, Toad was standing in the doorway with his hands in his pockets and his head bent. The backlighting cast a neon green halo through his hair. "Bastard. That's the tidiest trick I've ever seen."

Toad shrugged. "Something I do. Makes up for the rest of it."

Hearing Toad's accent was like coming home. Anagram felt miles better. "Come on inside, I've got whiskey and crisps." He draped an arm around Toad's shoulders. Toad shivered when Anagram touched him.

He really was green, and not a very nice green, either. He was a yellow-algae green with dirty brownish-green hair and with eyes that were large and muddy green and unsettling in their wrongness. Ugly as a pig in mud, but a damn fine bass player--Anagram kept reminding himself of that. Toad dropped a knapsack by the couch and sat down.

"Do you still play the bass?" Anagram emptied his shopping bag onto the table in the living room: whiskey, potato crisps, bagels, cigarettes.

Toad was fidgeting on the couch, shifting from side to side like he couldn't get comfortable. "No. I sold it for the train ticket back home from London and never got another one." He drew his feet up under him and settled into a crouch. It looked damned uncomfortable to Anagram, but Toad seemed more at ease that way.

"Home's York? Do you want whiskey or beer? A smoke?"

"I grew up in York. I don't have a home. I don't smoke. I'd like a beer." Toad rested his crossed arms on his knees and rubbed his chin on his arm. He smelled rank--sharp and earthy like a ditch after rain. That was familiar too. They all smelled like that back in the day.

Anagram lit a cigarette. Inhaling, exhaling. Carcinogens. Mm, that was better.

"You're famous," Toad said. "I been reading about you on the news."

Anagram shrugged. "I sold out." Neil punched him in the face when he heard about the record contract. Broke his nose. Last Anagram heard, Neil was up in the Highlands mucking about with sheep. He tossed Toad a beer.

Toad caught it. "It's good music."

He sat down with his own beer and popped the top. "I'm still a sellout." He took a long draught, slumping down into the sofa cushions. He could feel the frame quiver as Toad shifted about--surely the man wasn't _that_ heavy.

He was trying to figure out why he had ever believed Toad's makeup story. For Christ's sake, someone would have seen him put it on. It would have sweated off in concerts. Something. But back then, nobody had ever heard of mutants, so nobody ever gave it a second thought. "You really a terrorist?" Anagram said, remembering the email.

"Freedom fighter. I fight for all mutants."

"Against who?"

"Anyone who fucks around with us. Right now that's pretty much the whole world." Toad tipped his head back and drained the can. There was something funny about his jaw and throat, too. They were bulgy and moved more than they should.

Toad was green and walked on walls. He could have anything hidden there in his mouth. Anagram had seen nature shows--he could have _babies_ in there. Tadpoles. He looked back down at his beer, curious and incurious both. "That bad, huh?"

"Look at this." Toad set down the empty can and stuck his hand in his jacket pocket, bringing out a fistful of green American money. "Six thousand dollars. Emergency funds if things went pear-shaped. I can't spend a fucking dime. People won't let me in the stores! I have to steal things I need because they won't let me pay."

Anagram stared at the bills. He blinked, shook his head, ashed in the empty can. "Fucking hell. Have another beer."

Toad was wearing fingerless gloves, jeans and Docs, and a thigh-length coat over a hooded sweatshirt and under what looked like a chain-mail vest. All you could see were the tips of his fingers and his face.

That was more than enough to see that he was green.

"How does one go about being a mutant freedom fighter, anyway? I don't guess there's anti-mutant forces prowling the streets..." He tossed Toad another beer.

Toad shrugged and opened the second can. "I do what the boss says. I'm not the brains of the outfit." He looked down at the can and his mouth twitched. "Boss is in jail, though. So I'm waiting."

Anagram made a power fist. "Smash the state!"

Toad jumped and looked up, his eyes widening, and then his mouth twitched and he started to snicker. Anagram thumped his quivering back. "Come on, old man, there's drinking to be done!"

He opened up the whiskey.

Mutant or not, Toad was a pal, and Anagram felt better than he had since the band broke up.

* * *

Anagram woke up with a hangover and an excruciating need to piss. There was a body against his back and something long, soft, and sticky draped across his neck and shoulder.

Anagram shifted. The person behind him groaned and clutched his t-shirt--and the thing on his neck twitched.

No way he could sleep through that. He opened his eyes.

Tubular, translucent, green. Soft. Sticky. Felt like hardened jelly. Gelatin shots? That wasn't like him...

He turned his head enough to see who was behind him.

Toad. And--tongue. Toad's tongue. That green thing was Toad's tongue.

He had the feeling this wasn't going to be his day.

He picked it up the tongue carefully, laid it on the pillow and rolled out of bed to go piss. And smoke. Piss and smoke, and he was _not_ going to think about the five-foot _thing_ hanging out of his old buddy's sleeping mouth.

Three cans of beer and a bottle of whiskey on the coffee table, all empty. Well, at least they hadn't wrecked the place. It looked like they had just gotten plastered and gone to bed.

He avoided looking at himself in the mirror. God, but his head hurt. At least he wasn't nauseous. He leaned his forearm and forehead against the clean, cool tile as he drained the lizard, trying not to ash on his dick.

Toad's tongue. Jesus.

He trudged back into the bedroom and crawled back into bed. Toad was still sleeping, snoring faintly. He was fully dressed. His boots had left dirt smudged across the covers.

Anagram's head ached worse when he laid down. He rubbed his forehead, burrowing into the soft pillows and blankets; and there was Toad's tongue, curling and uncurling softly on the pillow where he had set it.

How deeply asleep did Toad have to be to let his body lay all over the place? Anagram had never thought much about his own tongue; it was just there, sitting in his mouth, moving food and letting him talk. Had it taken Toad a long time to learn how to talk with that? To eat? Or was it second nature?

If you were born with something, it would feel natural, right? Like having a dick instead of a cunt. He reached down and cupped a hand over his dick--yeah, it felt just about perfect to him.

He took a drag on the second cigarette of the day. He needed a plan. Usually he jerked off first thing in the morning, or fucked if he happened to wake up with someone. If he jerked off, his head would feel better...hell, he'd jerked off with Toad in the room before. He was pretty sure he'd been in an orgy with Toad in the room before. He might even have fucked Toad. Hard to be sure, with the drugs and the drink and the years in between.

Toad's tongue was rolling up on the pillow. Anagram couldn't help himself--he reached out and stroked it until it unrolled, reaching almost to his face. Extreme close-up. There was a dribble of green trailing from Toad's open mouth, staining his pillow.

The tongue was sticky and soft and a translucent green, like glass after it had been tumbled smooth and matte in the ocean. He teased the tip with his fingers and it curled, writhing back and forth in response to his touches, like--no. It wasn't like anything else in the world.

What a strange time to be alive, Anagram thought. Mutants. Why mutants?

Toad's eyes flew open. He sucked his tongue back into his head and made a full-body leap straight up, just touching and somehow clinging to the ceiling. Physics didn't seem to apply.

He looked down at Anagram, his eyes wide and his jaw working from side to side. His cheeks bulged with the sheer bulk in his mouth.

"Morning," Anagram said. "I think it's morning. Maybe noon."

Toad looked around the room with quick jerks of his head. "Fucking hell," he muttered, and he dropped back down to the bed. He rolled onto his back and pressed his palms to his forehead. "M'head..."

"I probably have some aspirin...somewhere." Thinking about anything other than Toad's tongue was just too difficult.

"Gotta piss." Toad rolled off the bed and stood unsteadily. He trailed one hand along the wall as he stumbled to the door. Anagram could hear bumps in the other room. Not all that graceful, then.

He closed his eyes and tried going back to sleep. Or he could jerk off...nah, sleeping sounded good, so he stuck his head under the pillow and counted sheep. Counted Neil chasing sheep. Silly bugger.

After a while, Toad slid back into bed with him, smelling like soap. Anagram opened his eyes. Toad's hair was spiky and damp and he was wearing a black t-shirt and camouflage trousers. He was short and squat and had the most amazing muscles that Anagram had ever seen on a real person.

"You were touching my tongue," Toad said.

"Yeah." No point in lying.

Toad was just looking at him, lying there on his elbows. His skin was mottled--maybe scarred; hard to tell. In the daylight, Anagram could see Toad's strange eyes clearly. The pupils weren't round, but pointed at the bottom like a word bubble in a comic strip.

Ugly as a pig in mud. The interesting kind of ugly though, not the boring everyday kind. He was already writing lyrics in his head about ditchwater boys with algae eyes.

And--muscles. He was a sucker for muscles. He'd gotten his face punched more than a few times from propositioning the wrong bloke, but it never quite kept him from chasing the lovely solid muscled ones.

And he didn't have a thing to lose. "Do you want to fuck?" Anagram said.

He could see Toad seize up, see his hands dig into the mattress and his biceps pull in close to his body like he was ready to spring off and fight. Toad cocked his head, one side, other side, one side, other side, and then just said "What?"

"I'm in the mood for a shag." Anagram shrugged.

"You've got to be fucking kidding me." Toad's fingers dug further into the bed, bunching up the sheets.

"No. What, do you only fancy girls?" He was thinking back over fifteen years, trying to remember how the bodies lined up. He fucked guys--he'd always fucked guys. Even when it was unfashionable, he fucked guys.

Toad blinked and his tongue, now flat and blobby rather than tubular, darted up to dab a drop of water from his forehead. "I don't fancy normals."

Oh. Well, then. "All right," he mumbled. He curled up, pulling a pillow underneath him. Still a little sticky from Toad's tongue lying there all night.

Toad rustled a bit. He shifted his elbow and crept a few inches closer. "You're serious?" His voice was soft.

"'M'always serious about shagging."

"Because I never say no," Toad said, and he crawled closer until Anagram could feel the heat of Toad's body all along his own.

Brilliant. Perhaps it was his day after all. Anagram uncurled and reached up for a kiss automatically. Toad pulled his head away. "I taste bad."

Bugger that. "I've tasted plenty of bad things. Haggis. American beer. Aunt Mabel's biscuits. Come on." He laced his fingers behind Toad's head.

"My spit can choke you. Spunk the same. It's like superglue and it tastes fucking awful." But Toad relented and bent his head down, kissing Anagram's lips with his mouth shut tight. Anagram couldn't resist a flick of his tongue across Toad's lips--ugh, he did taste terrible, bitter and foul, so Anagram kept his tongue to himself from then on. He let his hands roam, though, touching rock-hard muscles and broad shoulders and damp, coarse hair.

Toad's thighs were incredible. They didn't give a bit when he squeezed them, not even when he dug his fingers right in. And his arms--Toad could rip him in half. Anagram's dick stood right up at the thought of that.

Toad was touching him right back, running his hands over Anagram's body like he'd never seen a man before. He unzipped Anagram's jeans and tugged them down to his knees. "Take your clothes off," Anagram said. "I'm too old for quickies."

Toad looked up at Anagram, looking--shit, looking angry, looking like he was going to pummel him--but then his face softened and he smiled, which was good, because Anagram hadn't had his ass kicked since Neil left. He was out of practice. "Nobody's too old for quickies," Toad said. He started tugging his shirt off anyway.

Green all over. Blotchy green with darker green nipples. His navel poked out, a flash of little-boy pink amongst the green. Anagram slid out of his own shirt.

Toad eyed Anagram's belly. His tongue darted out and touched the corner of one eye. "What is that?"

Anagram touched the block of words. "Anagrams of 'antifuckingdisestablishmentarianism.'"

"What?" Toad stopped dead with his hands on the buttons of his fly.

Anagram tossed his shirt into the corner. "It was a slow month and I wanted a tattoo of my name." The tattoo formed a large rectangle over his stomach, its corners touching his rib cage and hip bones. He liked it a lot.

I banish star limits fucking stained men.

 

Breathtaking musician if mindless saint.

 

Artists bleak insignificant demi-humans.

 

An insatiable, semi-drunk, scathing misfit.

 

I am the stinking, brainless, daft musician.

 

Lesbian's demi-human Satanist if tricking.

 

Semi-drunk battiness if maniacal insight.

 

Kind amateurs best fascinating nihilism.

 

Misfit castrating lesbian's inhumane kid.

 

I'm a bright sneakiness and lunatic misfit.

 

Abstruse Satan if magnetic, kind nihilism.

 

It isn't grim. Lesbian's fuckhead maintains.

And more. Many more. Nothing spectacular, but it made him happy to look at the tattoo in the mirror.

Toad looked frozen, his eyes running over the words. Anagram pushed himself up and threw himself on Toad, yanking the buttons open and licking his throat.

Still smelled like a mud puddle, even after washing up, but that was all right. Under the camouflage trousers were white briefs--ha!--but then Toad was naked and shoving him back down on the bed. He pulled Anagram's jeans down around his ankles and knelt over his thighs and stuck out his tongue, flat and round again, and he folded it around Anagram's dick like a slice of bread around a banana.

It felt fucking fantastic. Even the stickiness. He was--oh, he was adhering to the foreskin and moving it up and down and around--Jesus. Anagram grabbed the sheets and shoved up, and Toad grabbed his hips and shoved down, and Toad bent down and closed his mouth over Anagram's dick, and kapow! Anagram came.

His head felt much better.

Toad was reading Anagram's tattoo, following the lines with one finger. It tickled. "Do you want to fuck me?" Anagram asked.

"No. That could kill you. I don't want to kill you." Toad licked Anagram's navel.

"Well, fuck that. There's ways. Can you get that bag off the dresser?" He pointed to his shaving kit.

Toad raised his head. He shot out his tongue and grabbed the bag, dropping it neatly into Anagram's hand. "Useful," Anagram muttered, and he burrowed through the mess of disposable razors and condoms and earrings and guitar strings and aspirin and, hey, coke! he'd forgotten he had some--until he found the lubricant way down at the bottom.

"Get off for a sec." Toad rolled off him, and Anagram kicked off his trousers and smeared lube between his thighs. He crossed his ankles and pressed his thighs together. He'd done this before. It usually turned out well. "Look. Oscar Wilde used to do this. Stick your willy between my thighs."

"You're fucking joking."

"No, it's brilliant. Go on."

His body was heavier than it should be for a guy so short. Extra-dense. Packed with muscle. Anagram wrapped his arms around him, loving the weight. Toad's hips didn't quite bend right--they were overly flexible--but his dick, like any other, was hot and hard and sticky at the tip, and it felt fantastic between Anagram's slick thighs.

Toad tried a thrust and white showed around the edge of his eyes. His legs clamped down around Anagram's and he held on to Anagram's hip and forearm and he thrust hard, hard, hard, his back arching and his breath hot and wet on Anagram's chest. A few minutes and then he was coming and grunting loud and shooting hot, sticky something between Anagram's thighs.

He sighed and wrapped himself around Anagram's body, flickering his tongue at a nipple. Anagram fell asleep.

* * *

When Anagram woke up, he found that his thighs didn't move. He jerked and sat up, dislodging Toad. "Fuck!"

Green stuff hardened between his legs, holding him like glue. He tugged but all that moved was his skin. "Toad! For God's sake!"

Toad blinked up at Anagram's face and down at his thighs, then jumped off the bed and raced into the other room. He returned with his bag and hopped back up to crouch over Anagram. He took a big brown bottle out of his bag and poured some liquid onto a cloth. "Hydrogen peroxide," he said.

The goo hissed and bubbled when Toad wiped the cloth over it, fizzing into nothing more than a nasty stain on the sheets. The peroxide left Anagram's thighs tingling and sore.

He flopped back onto the pillow. "Jesus. Toad. That came from you?"

"Yeah." Toad rocked back and forth on his heels.

"What does that do to a condom?" Anagram leaned over the side of the bed looking for his cigarettes.

"Dissolves them."

Anagram shook his head, lighting up. "Housekeeping is going to murder me."

"Sorry." Toad pitched the cloth into the trash.

"Fuck 'em. I'll pay for it. That was a bloody good lay." He reached up and grabbed Toad's arm. "Settle yourself and let's see what's on the telly."

Toad ducked his head, rocking again. "I should go."

"Why?" Anagram let go of Toad's arm to grab the ashtray off the nightstand.

"Because I told you, I'm a wanted criminal, and I never know if people are after me." Toad's voice grew harsh and his eyes hard. Anagram pictured him holding a machine gun and it seemed to fit, right at that moment.

The hell with that. Anagram wanted him to stay. Toad was inspiring lyrics, and the longer he stayed, the better they would be. "Have they been, recently?"

Toad scratched behind his ear. "Not for about a month. It's complicated."

Anagram snorted smoke. "Lay your head before I punch you in the nose." He turned on the television and started skimming through channels. He considered getting a pizza, but his stomach still roiled from the hangover, so food wouldn't be the best idea just then.

"You couldn't punch me in the nose if you tried." Toad crawled up to the head of the bed and settled beside him.

Commercial. Commercial. Black-and-white comedy. Commercial. Nature show on sharks. Music video by some dreadful boy band. Commercial. Explosion. Commercial. CNN. Anagram paused there to see what was going on.

Apparently, there was violence in the Middle East. Anagram rubbed his hand over Toad's belly to feel him wiggle. "What's your real name?"

Toad stiffened. "Why?"

He stubbed out the butt. "Can't make anagrams out of 'Toad.' Just 'do at' and 'a dot.' No fun at all."

"Oh." Toad curled up against Anagram's side. "Mortimer Toynbee. How about you?"

"Alan Smith. Bet you can do with that is 'asthma nil' or 'ham Stalin.'" Anagram started juggling letters in his head as the news anchor talked about the latest space mission. "'Notoriety member,'" he said.

Toad snorted against his rib cage.

"'Obey to merriment.'"

"Aren't anagrams supposed to mean something?"

"Ideally, yes." Anagram scowled. "'I'm remote rent-boy.'"

"Should I pay you?" Toad grinned.

Anagram pinched Toad's ear. "You, not me."

"I never got paid for it in my life." Toad slid a leg over Anagram's and rested his head in Anagram's armpit. He flicked his tongue against Anagram's nipple. "Paid for it a few times. Back when nobody knew what a mutant was."

"Me, I've paid for it more than a few times." Anagram watched Toad's flickering tongue. He waited--watched--pounced and caught it just for a second before it slipped away. Toad rolled his eyes up to look at Anagram's face.

Anagram leaned down and kissed him. Closed-mouth. Still tasted terrible.

He leaned back and Toad flicked his tongue again. Anagram pounced and missed.

"Today in Boston," the television said, "police report that $1.6 million worth of jewelry and un-set gems have been stolen from Newman and Newman Jewelers. This theft has been linked to the underground crime syndicate known the Brotherhood of Mutants, sources say."

Toad stiffened.

"Members of the mutant vigilante group the X-Men were spotted at the scene by witnesses. The two groups have publicly been at war for over a year now. Eight months ago, they captured the head of the Brotherhood of Mutants, Erik Magnus Lehnsherr, also known as Magneto. He is being held pending trial on charges of murder. Currently at large are two known associates, a woman known only as Mystique and a man known only as Toad. A third associate, Victor Creed, also known as Sabretooth, was captured with Lehnsherr and will face the same charges."

Stock footage of diamonds. Footage of a woman flying through the air. Mug shot of a white-haired man. Footage of a huge mutant tossing a bailiff around in a courtroom. Then the program went on to sport.

"How many Toads are there in the world?" Anagram said.

"Just one, as far as I know," Toad said, very softly.

Anagram rubbed his thumb over Toad's arm. "Bully for you, then. Most people are never on CNN."

He didn't care, really. He didn't know what had happened; the news said murder, but maybe they deserved it. You never knew.

"They make us sound huge," Toad muttered. "It's just the four of us. The Brotherhood, I mean. And Magneto is in jail so we're not active."

"Then who robbed the jewelers?"

Toad shrugged. "Maybe the X-Men were lying. Maybe they were birdwatching. I don't know."

"News made you sound like football teams." Anagram changed the channel. A movie, lots of explosions.

Toad made a rude noise. "Yeah. Football teams on the metaphorical playing field. They're on the side of laying down and playing nice. We're on the side of not taking any crap from normals who dish it out. We lost because of them--we all lost." His voice turned sharp and cold.

Anagram didn't know what to say. He ran into that problem frequently in his career as a poseur asshole. He was raised middle-class and comfortable in a quiet little suburb of London; when winter hit the streets with icicle claws, fifteen years ago, he'd just gone home. "How did you end up with them? I mean, how did you find each other?"

"You want my life story? It won't take very long." Toad rested his head again.

"Sure." Anagram muted the television.

Toad turned over, drawing his knees up beneath him and stretching his arms across the pillow. His back bent like a willow branch. "I was born in York," he said, and now his voice was soft. "My parents--I never knew them; they left me at an orphanage. I grew up there." He shifted his weight forward, brushing against Anagram's side. His eyes were locked on Anagram's.

"I was green from the start, plus the tongue, but I couldn't climb walls until later. And the slime came later."

"That must have been a shock," Anagram said.

"Yeah. It was. It is for most of us; all of the sudden our bodies start playing silly buggers." Toad's tongue darted out and touched his cheek. "The other kids were rotten. They always are. It never really occurred to me that I was different until I was twelve. We got a new teacher in the school, one from outside. He was the first one called me a mutant."

Silent explosions on the television. You'd think there would be nothing left to blow up wherever that rubbish movie was set.

"It's different being 'Mort the mutant' than being 'Mort who's green.' It was like--not being a person any more. Not human. Things changed." Toad rubbed his face. "I ran away a couple of times but I always came back. I didn't have anywhere else to go and things weren't that bad, at least not for a long while."

When he thought about it, it was different going from "Alan the Poet" to "Alan the Fairy," too. He should never have bought those magazines. He should have known better. But he had bought them and he had carried them around in his school bag, and then one day when the other boys were playing keep-away with his bag, they had come tumbling out. "What happened?" Anagram asked.

Toad drew his elbows back and flicked his tongue at Anagram's hand. "There was a dormitory, right? All the boys slept in one long room. One night they ganged up on me. They wanted to know how I was put together; they'd barely seen my tongue and they wanted to know how long it was. So they pinned me down and pulled it out of my mouth."

"Jesus." Anagram shut his eyes.

"They all pulled on it to see how strong I was. I had bruises later--I couldn't talk straight. It's not easy talking with this thing anyway." Toad licked Anagram's hand, a quick sticky touch. "I liked it when you were playing with it. That was nice."

"I think your tongue's brilliant. Those little rats should have their heads broken." What was amazing was that he meant it; Toad's tongue _was_ brilliant, and he thought most children should have their heads broken.

"That's when I learned that mutants can't ever get along with regular people. I packed up the next day and went to London to be with people who weren't regular."

"And you found them?"

Toad smiled. "Yeah. Best months of my whole fucking life until Neil's hysterical girlfriend blew my cover. She tried to wash off my makeup, see."

Anagram scowled. "Neil. That idiot. He has phenomenally lousy taste in women. One of his girlfriends nearly wrecked our first album deal--she fucking well vomited on the contract! We had to spend hours cleaning it off, and the paper was never the same."

Toad laughed, resting his forehead against Anagram's chest. Anagram ran his hands over his hair. Letters and lyrics cartwheeled through his head. "'I torment mere boy.' That's another anagram for you."

Toad's head jerked up. "Don't fucking pity me!" Toad rolled to his feet, crouching angry and naked over Anagram, his eyes hard and fierce. "You can pity me when I'm dead! Until then I'm a fighter. I won't be looked down upon!"

Anagram held up his hands. "Look, I didn't mean anything! It's a fucking anagram. It's what I do."

He glared up at Toad in irritation. Toad glared back down in anger.

The hell with it. He was too hungry, he realized. "Want to get a pizza?" Anagram asked.

Toad blinked. The mood shattered. Toad sat back down. "Sure."

Anagram took a shower while waiting for the pizza to arrive. He was stepping into jeans and sucking on a smoke when the lobby rang to let him know the food had arrived.

The pizza man was wearing sunglasses indoors. Kids today--he could never keep up with fashions. He didn't even know they made them in that shade of red.

In the bedroom, Toad was fully dressed. "Pepperoni and mushroom with garlic bread," Anagram announced. Toad didn't bother saying anything, just fell upon it, eating slices in two bites and sopping up the sauce with the bread. Anagram had to fight to keep up enough to get his share. He even had to stub out his cigarette early to give himself a free hand. How rude.

When the pizza was reduced to a grease stain and a lingering smell of garlic, Anagram grabbed Toad and sucked on his throat for a bit. Toad didn't object.

His skin didn't taste nearly as bad as his spit--actually, it didn't taste like much of anything. Just skin. Still smelled like mud. But that was all right; Anagram liked things that stank sometimes. Still green...eh, you couldn't have everything. "Stay the night," Anagram murmured into Toad's skin.

"Can't," Toad groaned. "Just...visiting."

Anagram nibbled his way up Toad's hairline. "Stay, stay, stay."

"Can't."

Anagram bit the back of Toad's neck, and this time he just groaned. It had been ages since Anagram had spent the weekend holed up fucking. He thought it was a marvelous idea.

Knock on the door. Blast. Anagram ignored it, but Toad didn't; he pushed Anagram away. "I can't let anyone find me here," he said.

"You're paranoid," Anagram said. Toad just shook his head and darted around clearing up his things. There wasn't much. The hooded sweatshirt and jacket went on his body and last night's clothes were already in the bag.

"Open up, Mr. Smith!" The voice was unfamiliar. Sounded like cops.

Toad slung his bag over his shoulder and licked Anagram on the cheek. "Goodbye, friend."

Anagram sighed. "Write me. You have my email."

Toad nodded and went to the balcony. He unlatched the doors and crouched down, readying himself. There was another fist-pound on the door; Anagram looked at the door automatically, and when he looked back, Toad was gone.

Bugger.

Anagram tugged the sheets off the bed, tossing them to one side, and then there was no trace he'd been doing anything other than eating pizza and watching bad TV. He answered the door with a fag in his mouth.

Two men and a woman in matching black leather outfits. Not the police, unless they'd gotten a drastically different dress code. "What do you want?" Anagram asked.

The shorter guy's nose twitched. "He was here," he said. "I'd know that smell anywhere."

Anagram scowled and blew smoke at him. "Fuck off, pal. If you don't have a warrant you can kiss my ass."

The short guy pulled a face at the smoke. "You're harboring a known felon," the woman said. She placed her hand on Anagram's chest and pushed him back into the room with more force than she really ought to have in her. "He murdered four people in cold blood."

The two men walked in like they owned the place and took a look around. "We're too late. He left through the window," the taller man said. He was wearing a visor with a lens the same color as--hell, he was the pizza man. They'd been staking him out. Looked like Toad was right to be paranoid.

"Talk to my lawyer," Anagram snapped. "And give me my fucking tip back, you slow bastard. The pizza was stone cold."

The tall man just smiled.

The short guy was sniffing around like a dog. "Nothing useful here," he said.

"What was Toad doing here?" the woman asked. Anagram folded his arms and stayed silent. The short man leaned over and whispered into her ear.

She blushed. "Oh."

"Let's go," the tall man said. "If Toad comes back or threatens you, you give us a call." He handed Anagram a card.

The X-Men. Vigilante groups had business cards?

Anagram crumpled it and pointed to the door. "Out. And you're lucky if my lawyer doesn't skin you alive."

The woman gave him a look that sent shivers down his spine, but they left without incident. Anagram hoped Toad knew how to get away cleanly.

Well. Empty pizza box. Ruined sheets. Thighs raw from peroxide. Four of the bagels were gone from the bag he'd gotten. And he'd just been paid a visit by the mutant Gestapo.

Time for some whiskey. He still had a full bottle.

Anagram opened the whiskey, thinking about mutants. He could write about that. Sure. He could write about that, and it would be _good._ He already had the seeds of a few songs in his head.

Whiskey wasn't a writing drug. Coke was, but he was out--wait, was he out? He checked his shaving kit, since that's where he usually kept it.

He wasn't out! He had enough for a line or two.

Right then. Whiskey bottle, ashtray, bagels, crisps, coke, mirror, razor, and his writing notebook in the middle. Time to make some art.

* * *

Interview with Anagram in "Bill Is Dead":

Bill Is Dead: So why did you decide to make your new album mutant-themed?

Anagram: I ran into an old friend lately, and he told me he was a mutant. He told me about some of the things that mutants go through and it wouldn't stay out of my mind. There you are, living your life, and then suddenly one day you start oozing slime or shooting laser beams from out your fingers and you find out that you're part of this group you never knew about and never wanted to be in. It's the fucking human condition. Only it's the mutant condition.

BiD: You know, I've never met one.

A: You might have. They're like queers. Not all are drag queens in fucking stiletto heels.

BiD: And of course you're...

A: Queer. Yeah.

BiD: That's not something you've talked about before, but you touch on it in your latest album as well. What made you change your mind?

A: Got tired of the closet.

BiD: Does this have anything to do with your former band breaking up?

A: No! Hell, no. Neil's a bastard but he's not a fucking bigot. He always knew I shagged blokes. No, we broke up because I sold out. I came to America and he never forgave me.

* * *

To: agramna@yahoo.com

 

From: n-sheep@e-sheep.nu

 

Subject: you sellout bastard

Why did you have to go and make me like you again?

Come visit. See the sheep.

Neil.

 

\--

 

www.e-sheep.nu

 

your source for electronic sheep.

* * *

To: n-sheep@e-sheep.nu

 

From: agramna@yahoo.com

 

Subject: Re: you sellout bastard

What did I do?

I'd rather eat glass than see your fucking sheep.

A.

* * *

To: agramna@yahoo.com

 

From: n-sheep@e-sheep.nu

 

Subject: Re: you sellout bastard

I bought "Ditchwater Boy." Wanted to hate it. Didn't.

You win. Come see the sheep. They're in fine fettle.

Neil.

 

\--

 

www.e-sheep.nu

 

your source for electronic sheep.

* * *

To: n-sheep@e-sheep.nu

 

From: agramna@yahoo.com

 

Subject: Enough with the sheep!

I win? Does that mean you'll play on the next one?

A.

* * *

To: agramna@yahoo.com

 

From: n-sheep@e-sheep.nu

 

Subject: Re: Enough with the sheep!

You can never have enough of sheep. Sheep are lovely beasts.

I had better play on the next one. Your arrangements were crap. But I'm a mutant, see? I liked the songs.

Neil.

 

\--

 

www.e-sheep.nu

 

your source for electronic sheep.

* * *

To: n-sheep@e-sheep.nu

 

From: agramna@yahoo.com

 

Subject: Re: Enough with the sheep!

All right, I'll come and see your sheep.

You could have just *said.*

Prick.

A.

* * *

To: agramna@yahoo.com

 

From: n-sheep@e-sheep.nu

 

Subject: Re: Enough with the sheep!

I did say. The sheep are frolicking about the fields. It's really quite lovely.

Neil.

 

\--

 

www.e-sheep.nu

 

your source for electronic sheep.

* * *

THE END.


End file.
